


Good Vibrations

by Artsada



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Android Parts, Belts, Consent Issues, Giant (Canonical) Penis, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Office Sex, Porn, Public Sex, Rimming, Size Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artsada/pseuds/Artsada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian takes advantage of a little Interrogation Room alone-time to teach John how to relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Vibrations

**Author's Note:**

> Give a slasher emotionally charged buddy-cop sci-fi drama and she'll feast for a day. Give a slasher a giant (canonical) robotic penis and she'll feast *forever*. Enjoy!

 

Sometimes John forgets that Dorian isn’t really human, not in any of the ways that matter to most people. He forgets because Dorian has somehow become a real partner, the best partner he’s ever had maybe, and someone John might even call a friend…

If you tied him down and tortured it out of him.

Anyway, most of the time Dorian is just like any other guy, any buddy John’s ever had. Then there’s the time Dorian bends him over the stainless-steel table in the interrogation room and pounds him till his brain shorts out. That’s when John is reminded that, yeah, the guy is a _machine_.

“You seem frustrated,” Dorian says, head cocked a little to one side.

They’re sitting in Interrogation 3 going over witness reports for the fifteenth time because they just had to let one of the Cartel’s mid-level pushers walk and someone, somewhere, has seriously fucked up. “You’re damn right I’m frustrated, Sparky.”

Dorian lets a quick pulse of blue light flash out over his temples and raises an eyebrow at him. John didn’t mean anything by it – they’re both generally pretty easy-going with the trash-talking – but he still feels like a bit of a shit anyway.

“Your blood pressure is elevated, the tension in your upper spine is nearing damaging and you haven’t had more than five hours sleep in the last three days.” Dorian kicks his feet up on the edge of the table, crosses them at the ankle, and rocks onto the back legs of his chair with an air of assurance that is frankly insulting. “You need to _relax_.”

John wads up another useless wire-tap record and throws it straight at his head. “I’ll relax when we get Mendoza behind bars where he belongs, and I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“John,” Dorian says in an alarmingly serious tone, “You are currently functioning well below optimal levels, and we’re never going to crack this thing if you’re not on your best game.”

“Game? I’ve got game like those shit-kickers could only dream of.” John shoves himself up out of his chair, whacks Dorian’s legs off the table and gets right up in his face. “I could take these scumbags blind, drugged, and with both hands tied behind my back and you know it.” He’s so close he can tell that Dorian isn’t breathing, plants both hands on the chair arms and shakes, just to let him know he means it. “Just need more time.”

Dorian blinks and a lightening pulse of blue ricochets down his neck and both arms, bright beneath coffee-coloured skin, below the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. “What you need is to sit your ass down.” His hands flex on the arms of the chair and John instinctively bends his knees, takes a half step back.

For a dozen reasons he doesn’t even have to think about, he knows Dorian would never attack him. But for all that he looks too pretty to hold his own in a fight, John is well aware that the DRN model has the tensile muscle strength of three men… and he bites.

“You need to relax,” Dorian says in a low voice, holding eye contact like you might with a wild dog. “Let me help you with that.”

“Oh fuck you very much, Frankenstein!” Dorian’s out of the chair in a flash but John’s ready for it, swings around to the other side of the table and keeps his back to the wall.

Dorian slams his hands down on the table and lowers his head, everything about him reading as a threat. “Frankenstein was the doctor, _dipshit_. I’m not a monster or a man but I am your partner so you better Stand. The Fuck. Down.”

Then he just grabs the edge of the table and pushes it aside, one smooth mechanical move and it goes sailing into the holo-shaded wall making little ripples fan out to the roof and floor.

John realises that he’s hard as a goddamn rock about the same time Dorian slams him chest-first against the table, wrists locked behind his back.

“You gonna trust me on this one?” Dorian grates out, “Or am I going to have to tie you down.”

John just bucks backward and grunts, tries to ignore the way the edge of the table presses against his aching dick.

“Well, alright then.”

John hears a clink and the slick shushing sound of leather against wool then Dorian’s wrapping his belt around both of John’s wrists, body-warm against his skin.

“What was that you said before?” Dorian asks, murmuring low with quiet intent. “Let’s see if you can take _me_ with both arms tied behind your back.” 

John can feel the pounding of his pulse in his throat, straining against the leather at his wrists. That’s when he remembers Dorian can tell just how swollen his balls are, just how hard and wet he is, zipper biting rough against sensitive skin. He still doesn’t know how Dorian does it, but he knows he’s being read just like a book and it makes him feel thoroughly naked even though he’s still not showing any skin.

John feels the insistent press of a thigh between his own, and Dorian kicks lightly at his ankles until he’s forced to spread unsteadily, ass tilted back and presented and all he can see is the misting of his own breath on the silver-shiny table beside his head.

“You know I was built to serve,” Dorian says in a crooning hush. “It’d be my pleasure to service you, any time you ask.”

John snorts, but all that gets him is a sharp smack on the ass and his dick jumping against the strained fabric of his pants.

“Tell me no.” Dorian rubs a thumb down the crease of his ass, grabs a cheek through the wool and kneads it with one hand. “Tell me no or I’m going to give you what you need and I’m not going to ask anymore.”

John clenches his jaw and fists his hands and doesn’t say a goddamn thing.

This time the sharp slap on his ass is an almost welcome sting.

Dorian hums softly for a moment, nothing at all like a machine, and says, “If you close your eyes, I can be almost anyone you want.” His voice is softer, higher, a familiar feminine edge, but it’s all fucking wrong, no matter what’s going on in his head.

John doesn’t let himself think too much about it. “Don’t.”

There’s a pause, and Dorian lets go of his wrists, curves both hands around the hard muscle and bone of his hips. “Okay, then.”

Then he slides one hand inward, palm pressed hot and strong against John’s stomach, the other pressing into his hip, encouraging him to arch his back, lift his ass up off the table just that little bit. And he does it; he spreads, he tilts, he fucking presents because the goddamn mandroid is right and all he needs right now is this. He squeezes his eyes shut, like his body thinks this is really gonna hurt, but Dorian has him unbuckled, unzipped and bared in an instant – naked from the waist with his pants around his ankles and his neglected cock painting sticky streaks against the table-top.

“You’re not as hairy as I’d thought,” Dorian says, and John actually has to laugh. “It’s almost sweet.”

He doesn’t feel like laughing anymore when Dorian sinks blunt teeth into the taut flesh of his ass cheek.  

“ _Shit.”_  

He’s starting to find it hard to breathe but Dorian seems to be pretty happy feasting on the meat of his ass, humming again as he slides the flat of his tongue against the stinging impression left by his teeth.

“You taste good,” Dorian rumbles against his skin. Says it in the way he sometimes says “apple juice is sweet” or “oh, icecream is cold”, like he’s learning something important for the first time.

He makes a little “ _mmmm_ ” sound and slides his tongue out to taste while John humps down against the table and can’t stop the whine building in his throat. His fingers and toes keep trying to clench and he’s about ready to start making demands if _someone_ doesn’t get with the program, quick.

“I want to taste all of you,” Dorian says. It makes something in John’s belly start to squirm, but he forgets at the feel of Dorian’s palms sliding up the back of his thighs, thumbs pressing firmly together up the lines of muscle and inside, prying his cheeks apart.

It’s a long time since he’s been naked with someone, in more ways than one. He’s not sure at this stage if he really remembers how it goes… but this feels like something he’s never going to forget.

The slick-soft press of Dorian’s tongue against his hole is a singularly _sharp_ sensation. Sharp like an electric current straight to his balls; rocketing up his spine and to his brain such that, just for a second, he wonders if Dorian _has_ actually shocked him -- if there might have been a spark. His back arches, chest and shoulders coming up off desk and Dorian is the only thing holding him down, pining him with thumbs and tongue and sweet sucking kisses that are burning him alive.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” He can’t help but buck his hips, trying to get more of this – more of Dorian, more of everything – and Dorian doesn’t seem to be playing around. He presses the broad pads of his thumbs into the soft flesh beside that puckering hole, grips the meat of his ass so that John feels every bluntly rounded nail like a bright burst of pleasure-pain and pulls him apart, spreads him wide and thrusts the slick thickness of his tongue inside. The noise john makes is something closer to a scream that a whine and somewhere in the back of his mind he’s really fucking glad that the interrogation rooms are sound-proof as well as shaded.

Dorian wriggles his tongue, sucks a filthy kiss around the rim, treats him to a rough flat lick and thrusts back inside. All his muscles are clenching now, even the unfamiliar ones squeezing down around Dorian’s tongue, but it’s not enough to get him there, not without a hand or a mouth or _something_ on his cock.

Dorian rubs his nose against that bone at the base of John’s spine, just nuzzles at the top of that crease like he’s marking his place. One of his hands lets go of John’s ass and comes back a second later, newly slick thumb sliding in to take the place of Dorian’s wicked tongue.

John can’t fight that feeling, that insidious stretching, pulling, _good_ , that seeps up his spine and finally makes him moan like the happy little slut he really kind of is. Every muscle that had been tensed – fingers interlocked and clenched beneath the leather binding on his wrists; triceps, biceps, all the heavy musculature of his arms and shoulders straining in stark relief - every muscle seems to decide that now is a good time to turn to jelly and just let Dorian do whatever the hell he wants.

“Told you olive oil makes a good lubricant,” Dorian says.

 _Cheeky bastard_. John grunts and shoves his ass back on that invading digit just to spite him.

… or something.

Two thumbs and he starts to go a little crazy, split open and spread under the burning heat of Dorian’s gaze and he feels it. He feels it all.

He wants more.

“Fuck me,” John grits through grinding teeth.

“What was that?” Dorian pauses, evil evil robot that he is, and leans down so that his ear is just inches from John’s mouth.

John could struggle some more, spit and scratch like a bitch in heat but he knows when to fold ‘em, and he’s about ready to fold himself into a pretty little pretzel if it’ll get Dorian to put that monster cock in him right now.

“I said, _fuck me_.”

The huff of Dorian’s laugh is warm against his cheek. “I live to serve.”

The thumbs pull out and John starts to get a mite anxious – he’s always liked his partners hot and willing and never otherwise cared much for the particular combination of parts, but it’s been a good few years since he trusted someone enough to have them at his back and, despite the desire, he’s pretty sure he’s not actually ready for the main event.

Dorian circles one warm, broad palm soothingly on his lower back while the other does something he can’t see. “Trust me, John,” and it’s his own voice, the real voice that doesn’t belong to any other DRN. “ _Relax_.”

So John tries. He clears his mind and concentrates on his breathing, his heartbeat, the grounding stretch in his calves and hamstrings, the cool metal beneath his chest and cheek.

Then he feels the blunt nudge of the head of Dorian’s dick against his gasping hole and everything goes to hell.

He knows rather than feels that Dorian is riding him bare; his cock feels fat and hard as a baseball bat, slick and hot and _right fucking there_ in a way that’s so terrible and so fantastic John actually thinks it might kill him. His ass is clenching, confused about whether it wants that dick in or out, but John is starting to believe he may not have a choice – this, right here, this is what he needs and inch after inch of that massive made-to-order cock is what he’s going to get.

“The-” _grunt_ “- stimuli-” _grunt_ “- it’s more than I - _unh_ -‘xpected.” Dorian sounds almost breathless, but John is still completely distracted by the tight clockwise thrusts of Dorian’s hips as he screws his cock deeper into John’s ass in steady increments. Stupid with the pressure in his balls and at the base of his spine, John fears for the blood supply to his brain because all he can think is _righty tighty, righty tighty_.

Realistically, his ass probably couldn’t get any tighter without one or both of them experiencing a really large amount of pain. As it is, his hole is stretched so wide around the meat of Dorian’s cock that he feels like a stuck pig, speared and spitted and stuffed. He doesn’t have any leverage with his shoulders pulled back like this – doesn’t have any choice but to take it, sweat-slick chest sliding and squeaking against the table with every incremental thrust.

“Who the fuck needs a dick that _big_ ,” John whines, slurs a little at the end. He’s almost delirious with it, the overwhelming pressure of Dorian forging new paths inside him. It’s crazy, it’s impractical, it’s _so fucking good_.    

John’s always been a visual thinker, and in the sparking vivid blackness behind his closed eyes he gets a sudden image of what they must look like, what the world (or at least every single person in the station) would see if those walls weren’t quite so opaque. He sees the broad palms and long fingers of Dorian’s hands pressing into the flesh of his hips, the improbable, perfectly rounded thickness of Dorian’s big black dick, shaded faintly blue or pink with synthetic blood as it splits the pale tan of his cheeks. As Dorian finally presses lean hips against John’s smarting ass, settles himself deeper and farther than anyone else has ever been, it’s the mental image of them together that finally makes John scream.

“Feel me,” Dorian growls, low and thunderous against John’s sweaty neck. “Feel me inside you, John.”

As if John could feel anything else.

And then he does feel something. Through the dense fog that seems to have overtaken his brain, John feels Dorian’s hands at his wrists, stroking the tense lines of his forearms and loosening the belt until it completely falls away.

John almost doesn’t know what to do with himself at this point. All the muscles from his neck to his fingers are tingling and sore like he’s just finished a real good work out, but they’re still reluctant to release from this position he’s been in for what feels like forever: arms locked behind his back – vulnerable, supplicant. Dorian somehow understands because he runs his warm, strong hands down the length of John’s arms, caressing from shoulder to wrist with that holy palmer’s kiss. With slow movements, Dorian encourages him to bring his arms around, stretched out beside and in front so that John can now just reach the edges of the table. So that he has something to hold on to.

John revels in this new stretch, the way he can actually circle his ass back on Dorian’s cock, rub the tender skin on the inside of those cheeks against the perfect smooth curves of Dorian’s hips. That is, of course, when Dorian lights him up with a sharp crack of his own belt against both cheeks of his ass: one burning, stinging, line of fire just an inch above where he’s split so wide. He hears the dull clink of the buckle hitting the floor and John’s control shatters; he breaks a nail trying to dig his fingers into the table, trying to push himself back on the thick, invading pressure of Dorian’s cock.

“Hang on,” Dorian says, and everything becomes clear as the first proper thrust hits John like a baton to the back of the head. Dorian pulls out until just the thick, juicy head of that dick is stretching against his rim and then slams back in with all the force of a freight train, a bullet to the brain, a twelve-inch dick fucking your spine out through your mouth.

John has stayed hard through all of this, that’s how hot it is – how mind-bendingly good Dorian’s cock in his ass makes him feel – and with each pounding thrust of Dorian’s hips John starts to think he might actually go mad with it before someone lets him come.

“ _Touch_ me,” John growls, pants, pleads. He’s hanging on to the far edge of the table, arms straining for what little leverage he can get, and it doesn’t even occur to him that he could do it for himself.

“No need.”

John can feel the pressure and the need building at the base of his spine, balls pulled up tight and hot, blood pumping in his ears, but that casual condescension still really pisses him off. “ _Asshole_ ,” he grits. “ _Please.”_

“No,” Dorian counters, direct. “Hang on.”

And then something happens that no one would believe, something that reminds him that while Dorian may have the purest soul of anyone John’s ever met, he’s not really human at all.

Without a sound, without any warning, but with a shock that makes John fear electrocution, Dorian’s cock starts to _vibrate_.

John was already seeing stars every time Dorian nudged his prostate, now the head of his dick is pressed tight up against it and humming, shuddering under its own magnificent power. John sees fireworks, nuclear blasts, and he comes his fucking brains out all over that interrogation room desk.

 

                                                                                                ___________________________________

 

Later, as Dorian watches him eat greasy Chinese with quiet intent, John swallows and admits he could probably get used to this kind of relaxation technique.


End file.
